


Shine On you Crazy Bastard

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Boot Worship, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Smut, Foot Massage, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>filthycannibal on tumblr challenged his followers to make him blush. Here we go again! The Scout shines his lovers’ boots. Everybody loves each other.</p><p>Title from "Shine On you Crazy Diamond" by Pink Floyd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine On you Crazy Bastard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [your_bro_joe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_bro_joe/gifts).



They both wore boots. The Scout’s own cleats didn’t compare. Cleats aren’t meant for shoe polish, for loving attention with the black and the cloth. You don’t shine cleats to a parade-ready sheen, and you don’t line them up next to eachother to see how well they stand, how proud their toes and tongues. 

But, both of his lovers wore boots. 

Both understood the merit of a good polish, in theory, but neither could be persuaded to keep up the habit. The Medic would rather clean his blades; the Heavy would rather tend to his gun. So, the job of their boots fell to the Scout. 

He didn’t mind it. 

Actually, he rather liked it. 

He liked bringing a like-new gleam to the worn boots. Shoes were a big deal, when you grew up poor, and new ones even more so. Getting that high polish brought him a sense of accomplishment he seldom found elsewhere. 

But more than that, it was intimate. Working his own saliva into the leather, conditioning it like that, he felt like a part of him was with his lovers, wherever they went. 

After not so long being set to this task, he began to salivate at the thought. He wondered if maybe the leather would take better to the shine if it was still warm with the body heat his lovers gave it. He wondered how they’d feel if he scraped the grime and the blood from their arches, while they still wore the boots. He could massage their feet through the leather, soft with his repeated treatments, and maybe, maybe he could…

He began to scheme, one morning before a battle. 

Sawmill was damp and muddy, and he anticipated peeling waffle-like chunks of packed-in dirt and grass from between the spikes of his cleats. He readied his tools in his locker, and set about the mission with a spring in his step. He made sweeping passes through his team’s ranks, watching out for his lovers even as he laboured at capturing the point, even as he did his best to push his opposite number onto the spinning saws. They fought long and hard over that shed, and blood ran into the slats between the boards, and caked onto the sawblades. He was well misted with it, himself, from proximity to the buzzsaws, and by crossfire of exploded bodies. 

Sawmill, for all its idyllic environs— the pristine forest, the crystal waters of the alpine river, the dew-laden wildflowers clinging to the edges of their battlefield— was a bloodbath. 

He licked his lips and tasted the coppery tang of blood and sweat. He could hardly wait for what was to come. 

At the day’s end, control was in their favour, but he knew it would be at least a few more grueling days like this one before RED conceded. He sped ahead to the locker rooms, and grabbed his pack, full of his bootblacking supplies and waiting for him, waiting for the Heavy and the Medic to arrive. He was soaked to the skin in rain and sweat and gore, and he was halfway hard already. 

He was practically bouncing on his feet when his lovers trudged in at last, just as covered, as he’d anticipated, in mud and essential fluids as he was. They shelved their weapons, and sat to take off their boots, to shed the most soiled elements of their uniforms before proceeding with their evenings, when the Scout stopped them. 

"Hold up, guys," he demanded, batting their hands away from their bootlaces, "How ‘bout we go someplace else before you do that?" 

The Medic and the Heavy exchanged a look of confusion. 

"But, Scout," the Medic answered, haltingly, "We will track mud all over."

"Well, we /could/ stay here for this, but uh," he palmed his own crotch and felt his cock twitch from the contact, "I dunno if you /want/ to…" 

His most winning grin was perhaps a little manic, but this time when the Heavy and the Medic exchanged a look, it was molten— a knowing glance. 

"We can sweep up later," the Heavy decided, standing. 

"Ja, a little mud never killed anybody. Not on the floor, anyway," the Medic agreed. 

Soon enough, they followed the Scout to his own quarters, and kicked dirty clothes out of the way, as per usual. The Scout retrieved his kit and asked,

"Who wants to go first?" 

After a few wordless moues between the Heavy and the Medic, it was the doctor who stepped forward. The Scout directed him to sit on the bed and unfolded a newspaper beneath the doctor’s feet. From his kit he withdrew a curved metal scraping tool, and he slowly, careful not to nick the leather, began carving the mud away from the Medic’s trim jackboots. 

Throughout this process, the Scout could hardly contain himself. He chipped mud from the grooves in the sole, cleaned them out with what looked like dentistry tools, and his mouth watered. He could see spots where blood had soaked into the leather. 

The saddle soap could wait.

He licked a stripe from the Medic’s toecap to the top of his boot, and kissed his way down to the ankle. Holding the Medic’s foot reverently, he repeated the action, licking the boot all over. When he reached the arch, the Medic jolted and laughed. Ticklish, it seemed. 

The Heavy watched from the desk chair, partially puzzled, and partially hungry for his turn.

Eyes closed, the Scout moaned as he put his all into licking the Medic’s boot. 

"Have you been wanting this, Liebling?" the Medic asked, lightly. 

A throaty groan was his only response. 

"You want to lick our boots, and service us, on your knees?"

The Scout was hot all over, despite the clamminess of his shirt, despite the autumn air. His fingers grasped at the Medic’s heel, his calf, his thigh, only to slide back down. 

"You are exceedingly hard in your trousers from this. You must have wanted this for some time," the Medic guessed. "Do you like serving me in this way, doting upon me and soothing me, submitting to my will, and your desires?" 

The Scout shuddered, but did not stop. If he touched himself just then, he was certain he would come on the spot. 

He ached for touch, but he denied it, concentrating instead on what he was doing for the Medic. 

"Ah, but that is enough licking on that boot," the Medic declared, kicking the Scout away with a slight flick of his ankle. "The saddle soap now, then the spit polish."

The Scout looked mildly abashed, until the Medic said, 

"We wouldn’t want your mouth getting tired, now would we? You still have three more boots to do."

So the Scout wet a cloth with his canteen and worked the saddle soap into a lather. Cleaning the boot was meditative. Applying layer after thin layer of polish nearly put him into a trance. By the time he’d gotten to the point where he was ready to shine, he’d withdrawn so completely into himself, into his ardent internal monologue of what he wanted, what he needed, that the room seemed to melt away, leaving everything in soft focus except for his burning, all-consuming /want/. He spat into a cloth and began working polish in with small, cautious circles. 

The Medic hardly ever saw his boistrous lover so quiet, and still. Even in his sleep, their team’s youngest member kicked and rolled and sprawled. This had brought all of that motion and energy into a fixed point, white-hot and heavy, like a star crouched adoringly at his feet. 

He took his time, inspecting stitches and creases, bringing up a mirror polish. He’d done this a score of times, but never with the Medic still in the boot, moaning as his feet were massaged through the buttery leather. Never with the Heavy behind him, breath growing harsher with arousal, mumbling encouragements as the Scout worked. 

The first boot done, reflecting the light of his desk lamp like a sun in an inky black night, the Scout placed a kiss to the Medic’s clothed knee, and moved on to the other. 

He thought he’d last longer this time, before giving in. 

Of course he couldn’t. He couldn’t resist licking the sullied leather, bending to show the Medic how he felt, how, despite everything, he wanted nothing more than to please and be pleased by these men. He could taste the dirt, could feel the grit on his tongue, but it didn’t matter. It was the proof of the Medic’s exertions, bright and vital as his heart’s own blood. 

Only when his mouth went dry did he reach again for the saddle soap. 

The Medic crooned affectionately as he scrubbed. 

"Ahh, /Scout/, that is wonderful… You are so good with your hands, and your mouth, mein Gott! Ach, but my muscles are sore from running through all that mud… Won’t you help me?"

And the Scout dug his fingers in as well as he could, working over the Medic’s foot, ankle, calf, and thigh. With every sound the Medic made, the Scout felt his cock twitch. 

He reached for the polish a second time, and began the labourious process again. 

"This is me," the Scout said, suddenly, rubbing spit and polish into the jackboot. 

"I beg your pardon?" The Medic was taken aback. 

"This is me, soakin’ into yer boots. I’m with you always now. You and the big guy. I’m carryin’ you both, an’ you never even knew it. But it’s me. I’m here. This is me."

And the toe cap of the Medic’s right boot shone. 

The Medic shifted to the side to allow the Heavy room.

When the Heavy sat, he reached out a massive hand and stroked his fingers through the Scout’s short hair. It was still polluted by whatever had splashed him during the battle, and the Heavy grinned. He pushed the Scout’s head down, instructing him to begin. 

Just as with the Medic, he began by scraping away the majority of the grime. But, bootlaces made it slightly more challenging, and the Scout had to break out more precision tools. It gave him a point of focus, flicking little bits of dried mud and plant matter out of the grommets, wiping the laces down with a damp cloth. 

He glanced up when this was done, and received a short nod as permission. 

This time, he tried to pace himself, tried to be patient. Slow licks, slow, slow, his tongue sticking to the leather, kisses here and there.

But he couldn’t stand it.

He was too hard and too ready, and it might have been hours already, and he pressed his open mouth to the leather, licked and sucked, and pulled away, wiping his muddy lips. He looked up at the Heavy, dazed, and the Heavy shifted his gaze to the saddle soap. 

The Scout grabbed for it and began scrubbing again. 

Polishing made his ache grow stronger, until he was practically whimpering into the Heavy’s knee. 

But he couldn’t stop then. 

When he could see his face in the toe cap, see how flushed he’d gotten with desire, he switched to the other boot.

He was so close to done, and he was so close to finishing. 

As the scraping tool rid the Heavy’s boot of muck and ooze, the giant leaned back with a contented sigh. The rhythmic passes over his foot were calming. The Scout, by this point, looked anything but calm. He looked practically delirious. Open-mouthed kisses rained down on the Heavy’s right boot. The Scout’s tongue probed the boot’s tongue. He couldn’t wait anymore. 

One of his hands dipped between his thighs, clutching himself. He was harder than he could remember being, shaking as he kept kissing the Heavy’s boot, licking over stitching, hoping the Heavy was enjoying this as much as he was. 

He looked up.

The Heavy was hard in his work pants, huge cock an obscene tent in his lap. The Scout moaned. So did the Medic. When the Scout dragged his eyes over to the doctor, he spotted the man fondling himself through his pants, just as the Scout was. 

"Don’t come yet," the Scout pleaded. "Wanna suck you both." 

He watched the Medic forcefully withdraw his hand from around his clothed cock, watched the doctor’s clever fingers grasp his pantleg. 

He scrubbed double-time, and began to polish. Bringing up that shine properly was probably one of the hardest things the Scout had ever done, it seemed. He wanted to be done so he could dive in between the Heavy’s legs and suck him until his powerful voice shook, until he bent over the Scout with oaths and declarations, until his lovers worshipped him as much as he did them.

Slowly, the gleam appeared, and the Scout considered calling it ‘good enough’ so he could spit polish something /else/. But he knew those two would disparrage his doing a subpar job with the boot. So he worked, he spat into the cloth, and he worked, and the Heavy rumbled above him. 

"Leetle Scout," the giant murmured, in warm, rich tones. "You have mud on your lips. But, do you know, is good look, for you. You will see, when boot is shiny enough. You will see how good you look."

The Scout whined behind his teeth, and squeezed his thighs together, trying to stave off the hunger for just a few more minutes. He tried to put it out of his mind, as he moved the cloth in small circles, and bit his lips to distract himself. 

He didn’t stop until he could see his reflection. 

The Heavy eased his boot onto the ground, and sat with his knees apart. He patted his inner thigh, and the Scout lunged, stopped only by the Heavy’s broad hand against his shoulder. The Scout’s heart clenched as he looked up. Why had the Heavy stopped him? 

"Your hands are covered in polish. Don’t use them," the giant instructed, mischief in his smile. 

The Scout answered that look, eyes glinting as he leaned forward, pulling at the Heavy’s fly with his teeth and working it open. The Medic leaned over to stroke a hand over the Scout’s shoulder, and down his back. He helped the Scout tug the Heavy’s trousers and undergarments down, freeing the giant to the air. 

Eyes half-closed and hands behind his back, the Scout bent to take the Heavy’s erection into his mouth. He’d had a lot of practice, and knew just what the giant liked: the point of his tongue just under the head and at his base, the flat of his tongue along the underside, suction at the tip. The Heavy liked it slow, liked to feel the heat of the Scout’s mouth around him, liked to watch his lover’s mouth stretch and try to take all of him in. Soon, the Scout was drooling. 

He felt fingers brush his cheek and pulled back, hastily wiping his chin on his own shoulder, and turned towards the hand. The Medic’s eyes were hazy, and his cheeks and throat were flushed as he held the Scout’s jaw.

"And where would you like me, liebchen?" he asked, his thumb brushing the Scout’s lower lip. He groaned when the Scout dropped his jaw and sucked that thumb into his mouth, scraping teeth against the pad and licking, sucking, until he washed the taste of talc from the Medic’s gloves away, and tasted the man’s skin, alone. 

"Fuck, Doc," the Scout slurred around the digit, "Y’wanna fuck me while I do the big guy with my mouth?" 

"Mm, ja, I suppose my boots should be dry by now. Move your hips back, hm?" 

The Scout rolled his eyes and snorted a laugh. The Medic could pretend to be unaffected, but the runner could see how hard the doctor was, how sweat prickled at his temples. He scooted back all the same, and let the Medic shuffle his knickerbockers to his knees. 

He imagined what he must look like: on all fours with mud on his face, nose pressed into the Heavy’s inner thigh, panting hard with his ass bared, his pants shoved hastily down, his cock hard and dripping. Turning his head, he kissed the base of the Heavy’s cock, and licked as much as he could reach while the Medic rummaged in the bedside drawer. Coming up with the Vaseline, the Medic smoothed his hands over the Scout’s ass.

"All that running, Scout, it does wonderful things for the muscle." He petted down the Scout’s thighs. "Yours are /exquisite./" His hands slid back up again and his fingers dug in. "If only you knew what this feels like for me, gripping your tight ass while I fuck you." 

Shuddering, the Scout lifted his head, and wrapped his lips around the Heavy’s cock again. The giant’s fingers tangled into his short hair and he moaned, then again, louder, when the Heavy bucked into his mouth. 

"Goddamn," the Scout mumbled when he pulled back. "Fuck my throat, c’mon."

"I love it when he talks like that," the Medic said fondly, warming the Vaseline between his fingers. 

"Which is mostly always," the Heavy agreed, cupping the Scout by the back of the head and thrusting shallowly, feeling the tongue sliding along his length, the resistance at the throat. 

Then, the Scout was humming and howling around him and he cursed under his breath, immense body pitching forward at the sensation. Across from him, and behind the Scout, the Medic worked a finger in, delivered a focused, immediate assault on all the places he knew would make the Scout cry out. The Scout snuffled and groaned, fighting to continue sucking the Heavy whilst the Medic pushed a second finger into his ass. For a moment, he could only pant against the thick cock, but, at the insistence of the Heavy’s hand in his hair, he redoubled his efforts. He felt a third finger, and felt his skin grow tight and sensitive with gooseflesh. He loved the way his lovers prepared him, opened him up and made him ready. He loved the Medic’s lyrical German whispers and the Heavy’s sliding Russian growls.

He loved their boots, framing him. The Heavy’s were in his direct line of sight as he bobbed his head and swirled his tongue, and he admired his handiwork. He remembered the moans from his lovers as he attended to their feet. He tried to make them match the sound. 

Drawing up, he licked into the slit and pulled off. “Do it, Doc. Need you. C’n ya see this?” He shifted his hips insistently. “I’m so fuckin’ hard!”

"Mm, yes…" the Medic reached under him to wrap his fingers around the Scout’s cock, lightly, teasingly. "All from shining our boots?"

"You got no idea what it does to me, Doc!" The Scout kissed down the Heavy’s length to his base, licking his balls and then back up again. "It’s like, you guys’ve been with other guys before me, but who else did somethin’ like that for ya? An’ even if they did, ain’t nobody did a better job. Because I’m damn good at it. Even better’n my brother’at served in ‘Nam. You guys got a good thing here, y’know?" He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at the Medic. "Now c’mon an’ fuck me, I’m dyin’ here!" 

"Boot shining is not only thing you are very good at," the Heavy said, directing the Scout to face him again with fingers against his jaw. "But am beginning to forget how good. Remind me?"

"Aw, jeez, big guy," the Scout answered, smile widening. "I’m gonna fuckin’ suck yer brains out through yer cock. Yer gonna come so good you’ll black out. Swear to God." 

He widened his mouth, angled his head, and took the Heavy into his throat. The Heavy’s groans vibrated through him as he swallowed, trying not to choke. Blinking tears away, the Scout pulled back, cleared his throat, and did it again, slurping as he went down. 

"Has he swallowed you to the root?" the Medic asked, aligning himself. 

Red in the face and panting hard, the Heavy could only nod. He petted through the Scout’s hair and bucked up once, answered by a cough and a moan that he felt in his toes. 

"It amazes me that he can do that. Such a talent, our little Scout is." The Medic stroked the Scout’s flank whilst he nudged his way in. "And so—" his voice pinched, "— tight!" 

The Scout’s noises were muffled by the Heavy’s cock, filling his mouth and twitching on his tongue. Huge hands gripped his hair and held him down. He knew his throat would be sore. His tongue ached from licking the boots, and he choked while the Heavy fucked his mouth. But he loved it. A glance to the side showed him a slightly distorted image of himself, reflected in the Heavy’s toecap. He could see the bow of his back, the spread of his knees. He could see a ghostly shape behind him: the Medic, clutching tight, holding his breath. The Scout shifted his hips back, needy, and the Medic grunted, thumbs digging into the Scout’s ass, before he pulled out, slow, shaking, and pushed back in again. 

The Scout could see it was going to be one of those nights. 

Sometimes, when the Scout bottomed for the doctor, the Medic went slow because he could, because he wanted to draw it out. Other times, he’d go fast, drive the Scout wild with heat, push him over again and again. And sometimes, he went slow, because he couldn’t stand it, because if he went too fast he’d come too soon. 

The Scout could feel the edge of desperation in the doctor’s hands, clawing his skin. He could hear it in his breath. 

Was it just the physical sensation? Was it the way he and the Heavy looked together? Or, was it the build-up, as the Scout tended to his boots, prostrated himself before him, served him? 

He sped up on the Heavy, the the Medic seemed to sense he needed to catch up. He gripped the Scout’s hips, and pulled out, the Scout moaned, the Heavy answered, thrust in, the Scout shouted, the Heavy cursed, and they picked up a rhythm. The Scout swayed between them as they entered him from both ends. There was nothing quite like being at the center of their worlds. 

The Medic gained speed, and the Scout had to pull back, concentrate on the Heavy’s tip, because he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hardly think with the way his lovers were filling him. He gripped the newspaper in his blackened hands and ached to touch himself, to touch either one of them, but refrained, whining, having been on the edge for so long his head swam. 

"You have been on your knees all night, Liebling," the Medic rasped, voice sex-rough, ruined. "I am beginning to wonder if there’s anyplace else you’d rather be."

The runner only moaned. He was so close. 

"And you have worked so hard…" A bit of a shift, and the Medic was swiping his fingers into the Vaseline. He bent forward over his lover’s back and wrapped his fingers around the Scout’s cock. The runner jolted, eyes tightly shut, feeling the Heavy’s tip hit the back of his throat and soaking up the giant’s low groan. 

"I hope," the Medic huffed, hips snapping against the Scout’s, hand flying over the runner’s cock, "I hope I don’t scuff my boots, doing this, or you will have to," he swallowed, and fucked harder, "you will have to start all over again."

With a muffled shout, the Scout shuddered and came, in white streaks over the floor, the Medic’s hand, and with a powerful thrust, onto the Heavy’s right boot. The sight alone was enough to keep him clenching and moaning, and both of his lovers cried out. 

Rough fingers in his hair pushed his head down, forced that thick cock into his throat. He swallowed reflexively, loving it, casting adoring eyes up at the Heavy, before the giant grunted, and threw his head back, and he shoved himself into the Scout’s abused throat two, three more times before coming with a roar. The Scout swallowed as best he could, but fought to pull off, coughing, catching the last of the Heavy’s release across his lips and chin. He licked it up and moaned, the Medic still bucking into him with punishing thrusts. 

"Aw, hell, Doc, you feel so fuckin’ good. Even though I just came, it’s like I want ya t’fuck me forever. Both of ya. Maybe sometime we can try an’ get both you guys in me at once, yeah? Fuck!" He fell to his elbows and the angle changed, and he was overstimulated but it was still so good.

"Would you like that?" the Medic whispered harshly, gripping the Scout’s hips hard enough to bruise, "Stretched wide around us both, each of us fucking you in time? You would be filled to bursting, Liebchen. Is that what you want?"

"Fuck, I want everything you got!" And it was true, he wanted them both, body and soul, wanted them to think of nobody but him. He wanted to rule their universes. To have two older men, both powerful and experienced, each stuck on him and wound up with him, gave him the greatest high. "Give it to me, Doc, c’mon! I wanna feel it!" 

And the Medic bit into the Scout’s shoulder to stifle his sounds as he went over the edge. 

"Jayzus Christ!" the Scout exclaimed, feeling the hot cum filling him, making him shiver. 

"Oh, /yes!/" the Medic answered, twitching through his orgasm, wrapped around the Scout and pushing the runner’s shirt out of the way to scrape teeth down his back. His vision went black for a moment before his body relaxed, and he slumped back, falling unceremoniously out of the Scout and watching cum slide down the runner’s beautifully muscled thighs.

The Heavy had fallen backwards on the bed, uncaring of his trousers half pulled down, the sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, the blood and grime still clinging to him from battle. With shaky legs, the Medic climbed up to lie next to him, thoroughly exhausted. 

The Scout sat back to survey his work. 

They were gorgeous, like this, battle-worn and still glowing with a persistent sex-flush. 

Only one thing marred the perfect picture they made. 

He bent and licked that last drop of his own ejaculate from the Heavy’s boot, then leaned back to look at them both, laid out sideways in his bed.

Perfect.

Although he might have to polish over the spot his cum made.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you folks enjoyed. If you want to send me a prompt, or find other stuff by me that's not on AO3, you can find me on tumblr under the same name. :3


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